Jonathan and I have been en pièce jointe for 19 years today. Being nontraditional (and unmarried), we don’t celebrate our anniversary with anything more than a passing acknowledgment that the 17th of December has some meaning, whereas the 16th and the 18th do not.

The title of this post references one of my favorite Steely Dan songs. Although our age difference doesn’t approach the one in that story, it’s there: a little over eight years between us (also, I know who Aretha Franklin is). It didn’t mean a lot to me when I was in my mid-twenties and he in his early thirties (and — clang! — recently divorced! — clang!), and it means even less today. All I knew was that he was attractive, funny and kind. I couldn’t say the same for the person with whom I was living at the time. And smart, very smart.

Eventually we made our way to each other. It was good to be in a relationship that was easy, not filled with drama, conflict and the constant implication that I was doing something wrong. Fuck that. I wanted someone I could play Nintendo with until 3AM, then get up and go for a walk with before breakfast. Or sit on the couch and talk. Or not talk. This guy was perfect.

Through the years, together we’ve gone places, been broke, learned to drive, spent money on items large and small, gotten sick, lost people and pets, had fun, been disappointed, and everything else that should happen over a couple of decades in any life. Nineteen years seems like a long time. But it’s flown.